In an effort to release creative juices, I am trying to post regularly again. Posting regularly, I’ve decided, will benefit my thesis, my work generally, and will help jump start that lovely personal writing project I affectionately refer to as “that crap book that just won’t finish itself.” So here goes.
Forgetting that it was Friday, I went to my local sbux this morning in search of a place to read about environmental discourse analysis that wouldn’t allow me to fall asleep. First, let me just say “I feel your pain” to all of those sbux employees out there who are now forced to make breakfast sandwiches and bagels as well as frappachinos because of a bunch of douchebags up in sbux headquarters who desperately want in on the Tim Horton’s market. Let me also say “keep dreaming” to those executives who think they have a snowball’s chance in hell of nabbing the TH crowd by asking $3 for a bagel.
I ordered my coffee et bagel and sat in my favourite seat by the window and started reading about discourse analysis techniques (yawn). Within a couple of minutes, I was surrounded. In babies, but more disturbingly in baby mothers. And not just any baby mothers. GLEBE baby mothers. And because I was sitting in my favourite seat near the window, there was no escape (see, it’s my favourite seat because it’s in the corner but it is also blocked by several large tables so it’s nice on days when you want to hide in a crowd…on Fridays, not so much).
Friday is Glebe baby day. My ovaries love Glebe baby day because well, my ovaries love babies. And on any other day, in any other social situation, my ovaries, screaming bitches that they are, would have been just blasting messages to my brain: “Let’s make some babies!! Do it!! Fuck the PhD! Who the hell needs those letters anyways? Did Theresa Bloomingdale need those letters? No, she did not because she had ten babies” and my brain, lazy bitch that she is, would have listened. My ovaries cannot even be shut up by thoughts of the birthing process, you know dilation, blood, bursting whatevers, stretch marks, excruciating pain and the like. But Glebe baby day is special because with Glebe babies come Glebe mothers and Glebe mothers make my brain want to vomit and, with attention on vomiting, my ovaries are harder to hear.
Glebe mothers, you see, are a special breed of mum. Average mums pay extraordinary amounts of attention to their babies and can, on occasion, become somewhat obsessed with them. This is only fair given that most mums have to spend an exorbitant amount of time with said babies and generally have no one else to talk to. Child-rearing doesn’t exactly lend itself to crazy amounts of adult social time (or so I’m told). So the average mum can be slightly irritating since all she can talk about is her child. But Glebe mothers take this to a whole. new. level. Glebe mums are each completely convinced that they have given birth to the next Einstein/Mozart/Hawkings/Picasso and just can’t wait to brag (loudly) to their Glebe mother friends (and anyone else who was unfortunate enough not to bring headphones with them) about the crazy advanced thing that their little genius just did.
Glebe mum #1: so you’ll never guess what little Jimmy did today? He signed “I want to go potty”! Isn’t that amazing? I mean he’s only two days old! He is very bright though. Takes after his super smart daddy Jimmy does” (oh yes, they also brag about the poor sap they drugged into marrying them).
Glebe mum #2: oh you’re doing the sign language thing? Huh I heard that stunts their growth. My little Mackenzie doesn’t need sign language. She writes notes to me. She’s been writing since the day she left my womb. The doctors said they had to pry the pen out of her hand so that they could take her measurements. You know, we almost named her Sylvia but thought that might be weird.
Glebe mum #3: Well, my little Tag doesn’t need any of those things. He was talking to me during the whole labour. He starts MIT next fall. He’ll be two.
And the whole lot of them invade my starbucks every single Friday. With their SUV size strollers, and their baby einstein video games, and their matching lululemon outfits. And, of course, their poor unfortunate children who will inevitably become toxic teens and even more toxic adults and the cycle will be complete. Sigh.